


Canticles and Prayer

by lookingforgrief



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Halamshiral, Humor, Mages and Templars, Mutual Pining, Rating May Change, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforgrief/pseuds/lookingforgrief
Summary: Cullen can't believe a mage would want him. Trevelyan can't believe a templar--even a former templar--would want her. They manage an uneasy coexistence until the Inquisition's attack on Adamant, when the two get stranded in the Fade and become the Nightmare's playthings.





	1. To Valiant Hearts Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Written largely to sate my desire for an angstier mage!Inquisitor/Cullen relationship. Although the story winds through canon, I've no interest in retelling events that happened in the game and skip most of the major plot events. Relatively canon-compliant up until Adamant, as the description might suggest.

Hear now, Andraste, daughter of Brona,  
Spear-made of Alamarr, to valiant hearts sing  
Of victory waiting, yet to be claimed from  
The steel-bond forgers of barren Tevene.

_Canticle of Andraste 1:1_

She was curled in a cot, unconscious.  Solas sat beside her, her hand in his lap as he studied the flickering green light that cascaded out from her palm every hour or so.  Or at least, Cullen assumed he was studying it. Solas’s eyes were closed and had been for some hours, ever since he’d told them he was going to try and examine her mark from the Fade.

“She must be responsible. No one else survived.” And then, in the voice of someone still coming to terms with it, Cassandra said, “Justinia is dead.”

“She is. And we can’t change that, can we?” Leliana’s voice was unusually sharp, which Cullen was coming to understand meant that she was still grieving, herself.

The three of them lapsed into silence until he spoke. “I’ve seen mages do some terrible things, but usually under possession. And we know she’s not possessed.” When neither woman spoke, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Do we really think she might’ve had some role in this?  She just looks so…guileless.”

“The good ones usually do,” Leliana murmured.  “We will see what she has to say when she awakes.”

“Does it matter?” Cassandra asked, bitter. “Solas thinks we need her to close the breach. Whether she’s guilty or not, we’ll need her help.”

With that, she strode out. It wasn’t long before Leliana followed, leaving him alone with the guard in the room, Solas, and the unconscious mage.

“Guileless” wasn’t the right word, perhaps. She looked young, even though she wasn’t much younger than him. The years didn’t hang on her the way they did on him, though. Not that he could see, anyway.

Leliana’s reports suggested she’d had something of a sheltered life before the rebellion. As best they could tell, her name was Evelyn Trevelyan, minor nobility from the Free Marches. She’d lived at Ostwick’s Circle once her abilities manifested, around the age of eight or nine. She was proficient, but not a prodigy. Her record at the Circle was clean. She joined the mage rebellion when her Circle collapsed, and went to the conclave a few months later. At least in these times, she’d lived a largely unremarkable life.

“No more,” he murmured, and felt a moment’s pity for the woman. Whatever happened next, her life would never be the same.

* * *

When Evelyn Trevelyan awoke, it was to Cassandra Pentaghast asking, voice low and deadly: “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

She almost laughed. Almost. She had no answers; why shouldn’t they kill her, after all? Everyone she knew was dead or gone, twice over. First at Ostwick. Then at the Conclave. Her reasons to live were fairly limited.

And yet, she stayed silent as the Seeker listed her supposed crimes, bickered with Leliana, and dragged her out into the blinding snow.

 _Maker, why am I here?_ she wondered, blinking up at the sky. _Why me, and not someone more_ important _?_ She’d been with the rebels for less than four months. Four _long_ months, granted, but the question remained: why her?

The Seeker’s hostility seemed to thaw as they trekked through the slush, though she kept looking back at her. Like she expected Evelyn to run. She thought about telling the Seeker that she needn’t have worried. She had nowhere to run _to_. Any home she had was gone.

Instead, she kept her silence as Leliana and the Seeker bickered with the Chancellor, at least up until the two women exchanged a meaningful look and proceeded to place the decision squarely in her lap. Mountain path, or temple?

Insane. They were insane. “You want _me_ to choose?”

“Yes,” Leliana said. The woman was remarkably calm.

“Fine,” she said, her voice brittle. “Charge. I don’t care. Just get me to the Breach. Get it over with.”

Which is how she found herself slinging spells at demons alongside a group of soldiers, all of whom wore a neutral green uniform. All of them, that was, except for one. The _Commander_ , the Seeker called him.

 _Templar_ , she thought, stiffening.

“…this is the prisoner’s doing,” the Seeker said, and Evelyn realized she hadn’t heard a word the woman had said before that.

“Is it? I hope they’re right about you,” he said. “We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

 _And whose fault is that? I didn’t ask_ _you to bring me here. I didn’t ask_ _for any of this._ Those were the words she wanted to stay, but something held her tongue. In the end, all she did was mutter, “I’ll try.” _Reluctantly_.

She was prepared to write him off, but when the Seeker began to lead them forward, she turned in time to see him catch a wounded soldier, supporting the man as they headed back along the path. He was like most templars she’d known, then. Neither good nor bad, but somewhere in between. Gray.

Maker, she was tired of gray. She was tired of _everything_.

“What are you doing?” the Seeker snapped. “We have to hurry.”

Biting her tongue, Evelyn turned and followed her.


	2. In the Solitude of the Night

And Maferath forsook the celebrations of his people  
And went apart, taking not even his Aegis, his shield-brother.  
In the solitude of the night, Maferath dwelled in his bitterness,  
And the Light which once burned within him extinguished.

_Canticle of Apotheosis 1:3_

It was the day of Trevelyan’s return from Val Royeaux. From what Cullen could tell, she hadn’t even stopped at the stables before heading to the war room, Cassandra by her side. Whatever had occurred in Orlais had left the Seeker unsettled. He understood why once the Herald, her tone laced with the kind of bone-deep weariness that Cullen knew well, explained the situation.

There was a lull in conversation as they all absorbed the information. Despite Lord Seeker Lucius’ behavior, Cullen still thought the templars were their best bet. In his experience, more magic rarely solved things. If something went wrong when they tried to close the Breach, the templars should be able to mitigate the damage. The same couldn’t be said of the mages.

He kept his mouth shut, though, and noticed that Leliana—the most vocal advocate for an alliance with the mages—did so as well. They’d already expressed their preferences to her, and their expectation that _she_ would determine which group to approach, before she’d left for Val Royeaux. In the end, little had changed.

“The choice is yours, Herald. I believe myself and the Commander have made our views on the issue known,” Leliana said. When Cullen turned to the spymaster, she gave him a wry grin.

He nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to watch as Trevelyan trailed her fingers over the map on the war table, her fingers hesitating over the marker near Therinfal Redoubt. “We should approach the templars,” she said at last.

Cullen was already opening his mouth to protest when he realized what she’d said. He frowned. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Evelyn was an apostate. Maker, she’d been _with_ the rebel mages at the Conclave when the Breach opened up. Why would she want to side with the templars?

Josephine nodded, but Leliana and Cassandra exchanged glances. “You’re certain?” Leliana asked.

Trevelyan kept her eyes lowered, fixed on the map. “The rebel mages have asked for an alliance. Nothing else. We know Lord Seeker Lucius is antagonistic towards the Inquisition at best. Keep your friends close—”

“—and your enemies closer,” Leliana murmured. There was a note of approval in her voice. “Interesting choice, Herald. We’ll make the preparations.”

Cullen’s frown deepened. This was not how he’d envisioned approaching the templars, but he couldn’t deny that she was right about Lord Seeker Lucius. If—as he hoped—the rest of the templars were more reasonable, it should result in an alliance all the same. Even if Trevelyan failed to recognize as much, he trusted that Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine would.

“Are we done here?” Cassandra asked. When Leliana nodded, the Seeker took Trevelyan’s arm. “Come,” she said. “We should discuss the Seekers. They are likely to be with the templars, and you should know what to expect.”

Trevelyan nodded, following the Seeker out and leaving Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine alone in the room. Cullen knew he had work to do, but he found himself lingering, eyes on the marker over Therinfal Redoubt.

“Is something wrong, Commander?” Leliana asked.

He hesitated. It was habit after Kirkwall to keep his concerns close. Meredith had not encouraged questions. But he’d resolved when he left Kirkwall that he would do better. Push more, if necessary.

“I see what you’re doing,” he murmured, looking up at their spymaster. “You’re giving her authority. Studying her decisions. You’re testing her. I imagine it’s because you see her playing a larger role in the Inquisition going forward.”

Leliana and Josephine exchanged another glance. _Thick as thieves, the two of them_ , he thought, not without some disgruntlement. “You’re correct, Commander. Does that concern you?”

Cullen sighed. “Yes. Doesn’t it concern you? Herald or not, she has no experience leading an organization. She spent two uneventful decades in a relatively stable Circle and a few months on the run. She’s led a sheltered existence.”

“Which is why we’re testing her, as you say,” Leliana said evenly.

When Cullen looked at Josephine, he saw that her brows were creased in a frown. “Her life has not been as easy as you think, Commander.”

“What makes you think that?” When Josephine looked away, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would you care to share what you know, Ambassador?”

Josephine pursed her lips, still not meeting his eyes. “I…would prefer not to. It was told to me in confidence.”

_In confidence_. Well, he’d known that Trevelyan was closest to Josephine out of all of them, with the possible exception of Varric. Still. “I don’t know that there should be secrets between us.”

“Josie told me what the Herald told her,” Leliana said, after a pause. “If it becomes relevant, we will share it with you and Cassandra. For now, trust us when we say it is not.”

Cullen raised his hands in defeat, recognizing that he’d been beaten. “If you say so.”

Leliana cocked her head, studying him. “Do you dislike the Herald, Commander?”

_What a strange question._ “No. Why?”

“Well, she is a mage. You were a templar for decades. It would not be so unusual, would it?”

“Maybe not,” he acknowledged. “But I’ve left that life behind me. And as I’ve told both of you, I’m not proud of how I acted in Kirkwall. I don’t intend to repeat those mistakes. And in any case, I find her pleasant enough.” Which was true. The few conversations they’d had, while brief and tentative, had not been argumentative. When Trevelyan had finally asked whether it bothered him that she was a mage, he’d answered honestly: no, not _really_. She’d seemed to find his answer acceptable. In any case, she hadn’t raised the issue again. “I just doubt her ability to lead an organization like the Inquisition.”

Josephine straightened her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “ _I_ think Evelyn will surprise us all.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cullen muttered. The pounding in his head—another symptom of his lyrium withdrawal—was beginning to increase. “I’ll be in my quarters.”

* * *

“I knew you could do it,” Josie whispered, squeezing her arm.

The two of them stood in front of Haven’s chantry, overlooking the party spilling onto the streets of their small encampment. Despite everything, Evelyn found herself smiling as she placed a hand over Josie’s, squeezing in turn. “That makes one of us.”

With the help of the conscripted templars, they’d managed to close the Breach. They were safe; it was over. And to her surprise, Evelyn felt more than the simple relief she’d expected to feel once it was over. She felt almost… _good_. In the months that she’d been at Haven, she hadn’t come to see it as a home, precisely, but she had made friends.

Like Josie, who’d invited her to dinner time and again, despite her (numerous) refusals, until Evelyn had at last accepted one invitation and then another.

Like Varric, who invariably made a point of asking how she was. Not the Inquisition. Not the mark. Not the Breach. _Her_.

Like Cassandra, even, against all odds. Quick to anger as the Seeker was, she was also quick to apologize when she recognized that her anger was misplaced. And as Evelyn had come to understand, when they’d first met the Seeker had been deep in the throes of grief.

Leliana remained a mystery, as did Solas. She was glad to have Sera with them, but on most days the elf was simply too much for her. Something about Blackwall seemed off, though she couldn’t place it. Vivienne seemed to pity her, mostly, which Evelyn supposed was fair. She was still adjusting to Cole’s strange nature. The Iron Bull intimidated her, and she was sure he knew it, too. She was also sure that Commander Cullen didn’t care for her.

But she wasn’t alone here. Not like before. Not like she’d expected to be.

“When things are quieter, would you like to go to Antiva with me?” Josie asked. “There’s so much I could show you! And I would love for you to meet my family. Well. Most of them.”

Evelyn laughed. She actually _laughed_ , and that surprised her more than anything, because there was a period where she’d been certain she would never laugh again. “I would love to go to Antiva with you, Josie.”

“Excellent! We will have to—”

Someone screamed.

Josephine trailed off. “Did you hear that? Maybe someone fell. I should check…”

And then everyone started screaming.

Evelyn felt Josie pulling on her arm, but she stood in place, paralyzed by the sound. It was dizzyingly familiar. _Just like Ostwick_ , she thought, her mouth going dry. _Just like Ostwick, and after._ Just like—

But then Josephine yanked on her arm and she was moving, following her friend through the crowd. Somehow they found Cullen, and then she, Cassandra, Varric, and Bull were running past the gates, cutting down mages and buying them time.

And then, just as Fiona fell (and Maker, _Maker_ , that hurt), there was an Archdemon in the skies and they were out of time.

“Herald,” Cullen was saying, “our positioning is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

The Tevinter mage—Dorian?—and Cullen exchanged more words, but Evelyn barely heard them. The tone of Cullen’s voice conveyed enough. There was no hope, not for Haven. Not for them.

Until Roderick made his suggestion. A path, out through the back of Haven. An escape route, if they could distract the dragon long enough.

Evelyn closed her eyes, remembering the hope she’d felt just hours before with Josephine’s hand on her arm. Slowly, carefully, she set it aside, boxed it up and buried it in the recesses of her own, poor heart. If she died here, she died here. It wasn’t the first time that she’d prepared herself to meet the Maker.

She squashed that part, ruthlessly, before she turned to Cullen.

“What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

She saw a flicker of surprise cross his face, and realized it was probably the first time she’d called him _Cullen_ instead of _Commander_.

“Possibly,” Cullen acknowledged. “ _If_ he shows us the path. What of your escape?”

There was a pause. Evelyn didn’t look at him, for fear she might see relief. Little as there was between them, there was still respect—on her side, at least. And she didn’t want to see a man she respected look _relieved_ at the prospect of her death. She knew that Josephine and Leliana were grooming her for a role, one she wasn’t even sure she wanted, and she knew he didn’t approve. Maybe it was just as well that it ended this way.

“Perhaps…you will surprise it. Find a way.” He trailed off. They both knew, she suspected, that he didn’t believe his own words.

With his instructions ringing in her ears— _Wait until we’re above the tree line_ —Evelyn walked back out into Haven, Cassandra and Varric and Bull by her side.


	3. Jealous of the Life

The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil  
And grew jealous of the life  
They could not feel, could not touch.  
In blackest envy were the demons born.

_Canticle of Erudition 2:1_

Cullen sat at the edge of their camp in the mountains, staring down at the remains of Haven. He felt…well, he felt lost. In a way he hadn’t since Kirkwall and Meredith. It was too much to absorb. He’d believed—they’d all believed—that once the Breach was closed, it would resolve at least _one_ of their problems. Instead, it had created ten more. And though they’d evacuated most of their people, Haven was lost to them, buried beneath a mountain of snow. They were stranded in the wilderness.

What bothered him most, though, was the Herald. Trevelyan. Evelyn.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a steaming breath into the chill air. One more mage he’d misjudged, after he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t. He’d known, when her intent to remain as a distraction became clear, just how badly he’d failed her. She’d deserved more than his service. She’d deserved his loyalty. His support. Things he hadn’t given her, not in full measure.

The snow crunched behind him, and then Cassandra was lowering herself to sit beside him. “Are you thinking of her?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“Yes.” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to scrub out some of the exhaustion he felt. “I was wrong about her, Cassandra.”

The Seeker wasn’t one to mince words. “I know,” she said, and he huffed out a surprised laugh. “But I was, too. In the beginning. She was—is,” Cassandra insisted, determined, “a remarkable woman.”

_Is._ He doubted she’d survived the avalanche that had descended upon Haven, but he didn’t correct Cassandra. They needed all the hope they could get, really.

Then he saw it. Just a flicker, glancing off the snow in the dark. Something green. His heart in his throat, he jumped to his feet. Could it be?

He was already running forward, and he heard Cassandra follow him with a cry. “There!” he shouted. “It’s her!”

And it was. She was hunched in the snow, the green of her mark flickering in the night as she shivered uncontrollably, falling forward. Without thinking, he knelt before her, knees falling into the snow and cold shooting through him as he pulled her into his arms, against his chest.

She was so cold. Too cold. Her lips looked almost blue, and her eyes were unsteady, unseeing as he drew her closer, trying to tug his cloak around her. Cassandra was yelling something behind him; he ignored her. For a minute, her eyes met his. He wasn’t sure if she saw him, not really. Still, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Was there recognition? Cullen couldn’t be sure, but she curled into him, her fingers tugging on the clasp of his cloak. His heart lurched in his chest, half relief and half fear.

He felt Cassandra’s hand on his shoulder, the press of her fingers insistent. “We need to get her somewhere warm. Quickly.”

“Yes.” Cullen shook his head, feeling like a man coming out of a trance. Dazed, almost. “Yes,” he repeated. Clutching her to his chest, he rose. “Let’s get her warm.”

* * *

Skyhold.

It was a miracle, really: a defensible fortress, waiting for them in the mountains. Evelyn thanked Solas for bringing them to it, but that small gratitude felt inadequate given the immensity of the gift.

For all that she was grateful to Solas, though, the whole thing unsettled her. Call it an instinct, a sixth sense she’d developed during her years of being monitored by templars. Something wasn’t right; there was something that Solas wasn’t telling them. For the moment, however, there was nothing she could do about that. So instead, she focused on rebuilding Skyhold.

It was coming along nicely, she thought, as she sat alongside Sera on the roof of their new tavern. The elf hadn’t been her preferred company back in Haven, but Evelyn was warming to her. In the context of Skyhold, she found that Sera’s irreverent attitude was refreshing as opposed to abrasive. Although Evelyn had assumed the title of Inquisitor, she’d done so reluctantly. It was nothing she wanted. Sera seemed to be the only one who really understood that, and for that reason alone Evelyn found herself seeking her out.

The elf passed her a cookie. “Newest batch, yeah? Got the cook to pass me ‘em early. Thinking we might add some nutmeg to the next one.”

Evelyn took the cookie from Sera, trying a bite. It was moist but crumbly and tasted of butter and sage, mixed with a hint of sweetness. “Are you sure? It seems good like this.”

“It is, but gotta try new stuff. Might find something better, right?” Sera cocked her head. “Ooh, look! It’s Jackboot. Bet he’s looking for you, Tadwinks.”

“Jackboot?” Evelyn turned and saw Cullen on the ground, raising a hand in greeting. “Oh. Cullen.” She smothered a sigh. Likely, they needed her in the war room again.

“Wonder if he’s figured it out, yet,” Sera said. She raised an eyebrow.

“Figured out what?” Evelyn asked, stumbling to her feet. The roof wasn’t quite even.

“Wonder if _you’ve_ figured it out. C’mon. Man’s got important stuff to do, I bet! Bigwig things! I’ve gotta find the cook.”

Cullen was waiting for her outside the tavern, looking a little uneasy. “What is it?” Evelyn asked, her pulse quickening. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Ah…” he said, trailing off. He raised a hand, rubbing the back of his neck. If Evelyn hadn’t known better, she would have assumed he was nervous. “I was hoping to speak with you in private.”

“Oh. Of course.” The world wasn’t crumbling—that was good news. Still, this was the first time Cullen had asked her for something like this, and it left her unsettled. “Where were you thinking?”

“The battlements?”

When she nodded, he started walking towards the stairs. She followed, keeping pace with him.

They passed a few of Cullen’s soldiers on the way up. He acknowledged them, but didn’t stay to talk as he usually did. Instead, he led them to the edge of the battlements, away from the worst of the foot traffic. He leaned against the stone bulwark, looking out over the mountains.

And stayed silent.

At last, Evelyn cleared her throat. “There was something you wanted to ask me about?”

Cullen started, looking guilty. “Yes. Sorry. It’s been a long day. Or two.” He drummed his fingers on the stone, clearly working up to something. “I feel I should apologize to you.”

_That was unexpected._ “For what?”

“When you joined us, I didn’t make an effort to get to know you. I know the others did. In part, I didn’t want to…upset you. I’ve been told that though I left the Order, I still feel like a templar to some mages.” He glanced at her briefly, before his eyes darted away. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She could’ve said, _You needn’t have worried_ , or, _You didn’t_ , but those would have been lies. Her experiences with templars might have been more favorable than most of the rebel mages’, but it was impossible to live in a Circle as long as she had without retaining some lingering wariness of the Order.

“I understand,” she said.

Cullen nodded, as if that was all he expected. “It wasn’t just that, though. I…” He exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry. This is hard. I’m not proud of this.” He stopped, then after a pause began again. “I doubted you. I wasn’t sure you could do—this. Lead the Inquisition. You proved me wrong at Haven. More than proved me wrong. And if you’ll allow me, I’d like to try again.”

With that, Cullen finally looked at her. He seemed earnest. Sincere. In the context of everything she’d endured, it was strangely overwhelming. Where to begin? What to say to him? What would it mean, to start over? Evelyn swallowed, her mouth going dry as she searched for words that wouldn’t come.

After a full minute of silence, Cullen flushed and closed his eyes, looking pained. “Maker. I’m sorry. I overstepped. Just…forget I mentioned it. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I—”

“No,” Evelyn said, cutting him off. When Cullen frowned, waiting, she forced herself to continue. “I appreciate the gesture. I do. I’d like the same thing.”

“Oh,” Cullen said. His shoulders slumped, the tension loosening. “Good.”

If this was going to work—if they were going to develop a friendship beyond their current uneasy relationship as Inquisitor and advisor—she needed to tell him about her Circle. It was too large a part of her to ignore. Anyone she wanted to call a friend would have to know, and as her advisor Cullen _needed_ to know. _This is the perfect time to tell him_ , she thought. _Of course, that doesn’t make it any easier to actually_ do _it._

“At Ostwick,” Evelyn began, then stopped and sighed. “Josephine knows. I gave her permission to tell Leliana. I assume a few others have learned, one way or another. I don’t mind you knowing. You _should_ know. It’s just difficult for me to talk about.”

An understatement, really. Her whole body was wound tight as a spring, everything within her waiting to _run_.

“Did a templar hurt you?” Cullen asked at last, his voice soft.

The sympathy in the question wrenched something in her. Why was this still so difficult, after almost a decade? “No,” she said finally. “Not really. The templars at Ostwick’s Circle were…” she sighed, still struggling for the words. “Normal. They were people, like anyone else. Most were fair. Some weren’t. I had a few who I knew who were kind to me. A woman named Ierene.” She paused, and hoped that Cullen didn’t notice the gap. “A man named Jansen. They were good people.

“We weren’t supposed to have relationships, with other mages or with templars,” Evelyn said. Cullen snorted, which surprised a wry grin from her. “Yes, that’s about how it went. I didn’t intend on…being with anyone.” She flushed, hoping Cullen wouldn’t notice. “It seemed safer to avoid it. But when I’d been at the Circle for over a decade, there was a transfer. A man named Helion. We were together, eventually.”

She paused, and Cullen—unlike Josephine—didn’t ask for more about Helion, for which Evelyn was grateful. Discussing him was painful. It still felt like a fresh wound, the skin blistered open. Worse, though, was that she was beginning to forget. When the light hit his eyes, were they blue? Or gray? What did he eat for breakfast? Where did he take his lunch? Forgetting felt like a betrayal, and questions just reminded her of all she’d already lost.

“I can’t say I was content with the way things were. I wanted to be with him. Like anyone does, I suppose. But I wasn’t ready to be an apostate. I didn’t want to leave the Circle. I wasn’t happy, but the alternative seemed worse. Helion disagreed. He told me he was working on something. And then one morning he wasn’t at breakfast. That evening, he came back. Tranquil, of course.”

As she said it, she felt a familiar echo of the pain she’d felt then, years ago: the tightening in her chest, the rush of fear chased by plummeting despair as she realized it was too late. At least it hurt less, now.

“I asked Ierene and Jansen what happened. Neither of them was there when he was taken. Ierene heard that he’d been caught stealing some books on summoning demons. Jansen heard he was caught actually summoning one.”

When she stopped, Cullen asked, quietly, “Which was it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Either way, it probably had to do with me. Assuming it happened. That’s the worst part, I think. I’ll never know if anything actually happened. Maybe he summoned a demon. Maybe he stole a book. Maybe he frowned at the wrong templar.” Her hands clenched into fists, unbidden. “But I shouldn’t let it affect me. Mages have suffered far worse.”

“I know. Maker, I _know_ ,” he said, and she remembered that he’d been at Kirkwall. “That doesn’t make it any less painful.”

“No. It doesn’t,” she agreed. “The other mages weren’t happy about it. Helion was well-liked, for the most part. But no one else was made Tranquil, and eventually people stopped talking about it.” That didn’t mean it had ever stopped hurting, seeing Helion every day with the same bland, thoughtless smile on his face, but over time she’d grown better at thinking of him as someone else. A different person from the Helion she’d known. “The Circle was quiet after that. Until…well, until it wasn’t.”

There was more to it, but even sharing that much had left her feeling drained. Telling Cullen the rest of it seemed like an impossible feat, at the moment.

They stayed there, in a silence that bordered on companionable, until Cullen shifted. When Evelyn looked up at him, he caught her eye and nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for asking,” she said, because she appreciated that it hadn’t been easy for him to broach the topic. As she turned to go, Evelyn managed to give him a smile. “I told you, didn’t I? No bad templars. Just people.”


	4. Where Once a Terrible Fire Swept

And they reached the gates of Minrathous,  
Where once a terrible fire swept  
The Light of redemption from the face of the world,  
And there, the Lady of Restitution  
Drew her shining sword

_Canticle of Exaltations 1:13_

_No bad templars. Just people._

Cullen paged through Leliana’s records on Ostwick’s Circle, stifling a sigh. In the two decades before its rebellion, only two mages had been made Tranquil: a woman, a month or two before Evelyn joined, and Helion. There were no major incidents, other than those. A few failed Harrowings, but that wasn’t unusual. One or two transferred templars. It had been a quiet Circle, all things considered. But quiet didn’t mean comfortable, as he should’ve known. Kinloch had been _quiet_ until Uldred had staged his coup, after all.

He flipped to the papers on the Rites of Tranquility. The reason for applying the Rite to Helion was listed as “demon summoning,” but the official reason wasn’t necessarily the real one. There were no reports to accompany the charge, though that wasn’t especially noteworthy.

Cullen took out the casualty lists, next. His stomach sank when he saw that most of the Circle’s Tranquil—including Helion—had perished in the rebellion. The Tranquil were usually among the first casualties, even though they were harmless. _Or maybe because of it._

None of it should have surprised him, given all that he’d seen, but somehow it still did on some level. Circles like Kirkwall’s, like Kinloch’s—those should be the exception, but the more he saw, the more he began to think they were closer to the norm. He couldn’t deny that the templars they’d conscripted at Therinfal Redoubt clearly made Evelyn nervous, though he was relatively confident that only he and her inner circle recognized as much. And he’d made her nervous at the beginning, though she seemed more at ease around him now.

It was disheartening to think that all mages, even ones like Evelyn who hadn’t been brutalized by her Circle’s templars, still feared them on some level. He’d always thought that if the Order had been better, _done_ better, the war might have been averted—but maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe it would’ve happened regardless.

It was late when Cullen went to bed and he slept poorly. He ate a quick breakfast before heading to the war room, recalling that Leliana had asked for an earlier meeting. Their spymaster was already there when he arrived, though she was the only one in the room.

“Ah, Commander. Were the records on Ostwick’s Circle helpful?”

It was impossible to read her, sometimes. Her expression was coolly blank, and Cullen couldn’t tell if she was truly asking or trying to subtly chastise him.

“Yes, very. Thank you, again.” He passed her the sheaf of papers; she made a soft _hmm_ as she placed them at the bottom of the stack before her.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No, not really.” He sighed as the pounding at the back of his head started worsen.  He could already tell it wasn’t going to be a good day. “I spoke to Evelyn yesterday. She told me a little of her experience at Ostwick. It…wasn’t encouraging.”

Leliana cocked her head. “Howso?”

Cullen narrowed his eyes, considering. Would she understand? Possibly not, but he owed her, as his colleague, the benefit of the doubt. “I suppose I thought the problems at the Circles were isolated. Exceptional. The more I speak to mages, the more I begin to think that’s not true.”

She favored him with a small smile. “You continue to surprise me, Commander.”

He returned it with a lopsided grin of his own. “Is that a good thing? Or a bad one?”

“Good, in this case.”

“Good, then.” Cullen leaned over the war table, studying the markers on the map before looking back up at Leliana. “Do you see a solution?”

“I do.” Before he could ask her to elaborate, she added, “Oh, not its exact form. I have ideas. I think we all do, those of us who worked with Justinia. I like to think at least some of it could be resolved if the two sides would talk to one another. That was the purpose of the Conclave, after all.”

He nodded, acknowledging her point. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Your conversation with the Inquisitor was productive, then, wasn’t it? You—a former templar—spoke to a mage and learned something new.”

Cullen huffed a laugh. “By that measure, I suppose it was.”

* * *

Cullen approached her again a few days after their conversation on the battlements. Evelyn was in the garden when he came to her, planting a new set of seeds.

“Is that…rashvine?” he asked, by way of an opening.

Evelyn started, nearly knocking over the pot. _Wonderful_ , she thought, feeling her cheeks warm. “Er—yes. We’re running low.”

Cullen, at least, seemed just as flustered as she was. “Oh, I—I startled you, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Did you need something?” she asked, and then winced. It came out sounding more dismissive than she’d intended.

“Well, it’s not urgent. Or important, really. But I thought you might enjoy a game of chess.”

That got her attention. Evelyn rested her muddy hands on the edge of the pot, turning to face him. He looked almost nervous, which was strange. “Chess?”

“Yes. I normally play with Dorian, but he’s begged off for the day. I thought I might offer you a chance to best me.”

Dorian. Now that was a friendship she would _not_ have predicted. Evelyn tapped her fingers on the edge of the pot, considering. Things had been better between them, recently. Cullen was clearly making an effort. The least she could do was reciprocate. “Why not? Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll meet you back here.”

Cullen smiled at her. “Excellent. I’ll be over by the chess tables.”

As Evelyn packed up her tools, she realized that this was perhaps the first time he’d smiled at her. Even stranger, it caused her to realize—again, somehow, for the first time—that Cullen was actually quite attractive. She’d recognized from the beginning that he was handsome, but this was different. _Attractive_ meant she could, at least theoretically, be attracted _to_ him.

_Stupid_ , she thought, shaking her head. _Put it aside._ She doubted Commander Cullen, ex-templar and leader of their military forces, would have much of an interest in an apostate mage who was, at least in title, his superior. And her own tolerance for templars only extended so far.

_Not a templar_ , she reminded herself as she stored the potting tools. _Ex-templar. He left the Order_. Still. In the end, the result was the same. Any attraction she felt would be fruitless. Best to smother it now, before it had a chance to grow.

Evelyn washed her hands in the fountain, drying them on her pants before she went to meet Cullen at the chess tables. “Are you any good?” she asked, sitting across from him.

He smiled, for a second time. “I’m a fair player.”

As it turned out, that was an understatement. Cullen was good, and though Evelyn had spent a reasonable amount of time playing chess in the Circle, he was easily the better player.

“Check,” he said, and when she sighed he made an apologetic noise. “I used to play with my sister, Mia. She’s the one who taught me.”

Evelyn moved a pawn, not hoping for much. “It sounds like you were close to her.”

“Checkmate. I was. Am, I suppose. I don’t write her as much as I should. She and the rest of my family moved to South Reach after the Blight.” Cullen leaned back in his chair, resting a hand casually on the pommel of his ever-present sword. “You should’ve moved your bishop.”

“Probably,” Evelyn agreed. “Leliana mentioned you were stationed at a Circle in Ferelden before you went to Kirkwall. Was the Circle close to Honnleath?”

Immediately, she knew it was the wrong question to ask. Cullen tensed, his mouth thinning to a narrow line as his grip on his sword tightened. Evelyn didn’t doubt that beneath his gloves, his knuckles were white.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but to her surprise, Cullen spoke first. “I was stationed at Kinloch.”

“ _Kinloch_? Wasn’t everyone in that Circle—” The words dried up in her mouth as she realized there was no good way to finish that sentence. _Killed or turned into an abomination._ “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. It was a harmless question.” He rubbed his forehead, as if something there pained him. “Not everyone, no thanks to me. Most of the templars were killed by abominations or demons. I was the only one left inside the tower when the Hero of Ferelden arrived.”

Well, she’d managed to kill what was an otherwise pleasant conversation. “I’m sorry,” Evelyn repeated, aware of how inadequate the words sounded.

Cullen waved it away, even managing a smile. “I asked you about Ostwick, didn’t I?”

“But I was having fun.” The words came out as a whisper, and one she didn’t intend. When she realized she’d spoken aloud, her cheeks started to burn. _Andraste’s tits_ , she thought, biting her tongue.

“You were?” Cullen asked. He sounded startled. “We should play again, then.”

“I’d like that.”

“I would as well.” The smile he gave her then was unexpectedly soft, and Evelyn felt her heart lurch in her chest. _Stupid, stupid._ But soon enough the smile faded, and when he spoke next it was as the Commander to his Inquisitor. “There is something I need to tell you, though. Now is likely as good a time as any.”

She straightened, reluctantly assuming her own role. It had been nice, for a while, to just feel like Evelyn. “Go on,” she said.

* * *

He told her about the lyrium.

She’d more than earned his trust. Besides, he had a feeling that if he didn’t do it soon, Cassandra was going to insist in any case. Rightfully so. It was a liability on the best of days. He’d expected her to protest, suggest he try taking less instead of abstaining outright.  Insist on consulting with Cassandra, at the least. Evelyn hadn’t done any of those things, though. Some unreadable look had passed over her face, and then her mouth had firmed.

_I think you’re doing the right thing. You have my support. If anyone gives you trouble, send them to me._

In that moment, the knowledge had hit him like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs: Evelyn Trevelyan was the Inquisitor. This wasn’t a woman with noble intentions, thrust into a role she plainly didn’t want; this was a legend in the making. The spark he’d seen at Haven was slowly building to a flame. Cullen could already see the kind of leader she would become.

For some reason, the whole train of thought left him feeling restless bordering on melancholy. _Pointless_ , he thought, and picked up the next report in his pile. Whatever it was would pass. They were saving Thedas—anything else was secondary.


	5. What the Dawn Would Bring

The Imperium slept. In the lofty palaces  
Mages dreamed of the Maker's Palace, golden and shining,  
And though they knew not why, the dream turned their blood to ice.  
Soldiers stood their watches, and servants hurried on errands,  
Unaware of what the dawn would bring.

_Canticle of Silence 2:1_

The Emerald Graves wasn’t the _worst_ place Evelyn had traveled, but that wasn’t saying much.

Her first day was pleasant enough. She established contact with Fairbanks and his men and scouted the area, collecting some resources for Scout Harding.

The second was worse.

It was an exhausting day, full of death and destruction. Evelyn lost count of the number of lyrium-addled templars and crazed mages that she, Blackwall, Dorian, and Varric had killed somewhere around number thirty-two. The Graves were thick with them, and though she should, in theory, be glad—their energy was better spent killing their actual enemies, after all, as opposed to the native wildlife—every kill she made left her with trembling hands and the vague notion that she might retch into the nearest bush. It all reminded her too much of Ostwick at its end.

Only Varric seemed to notice the way her hands shook when she held her spoon to eat the soup they cooked for dinner, and Maker bless him, he didn’t say anything. He just shot her a sympathetic look and started slurping straight from the side of the bowl, spoon abandoned. “What?” he asked when Blackwall and Dorian gawked at him. “I’m hungry!” It gave her an excuse to set her own spoon aside and do the same.

Suffice to say, she retreated to her tent expecting to have her usual spate of Ostwick nightmares. Instead, she found herself inside a different dream.

It was a twist on a memory, like most of her dreams were. Evelyn was in Ostwick’s library after hours, her back to the stacks, her hands tangled in Jansen’s hair as she moaned into his mouth.

She’d started seeing him around three years after Helion was made Tranquil. Their coming-together felt inevitable, like something years or decades in the making. Everything about him had felt _right_ , at least at first. But while relationships between mages were barely tolerated, relationships between mages and templars were actively prohibited. They’d had to sneak around, and on that night, it had been a full week since she’d been able to do more than stare at him or ask casual questions about the next shipment of books for the library.

She was starving for him, and he for her. The moment he pressed his lips to hers, she yanked his hands forward to her hips, trapping the fabric of her skirts between her skin and his and dragging _up_. Jansen caught on quickly, leaning forward to yank up her skirts. From there his hands found her smalls in short order, pulling them down to his ankles. And then his hands were where she wanted them, slipping between her legs.

He sucked in a breath. “Maker,” he muttered, “you’re _wet_.”

“For you,” she breathed. “For you.”

Jansen bowed his head, groaning into her neck as he slipped a finger inside her and she swallowed a gasp. His other hand kept her pinned to the bookshelf, even as her own hands went to his linen trousers—they were both in their sleeping clothes—and she started to tug, doing her best to drag them down.

She wasn’t quite able to muffle the noise she made when he pushed another finger inside her, and Jansen certainly wasn’t being particularly quiet, either. She could feel his breath on her ear as he whispered the kinds of things he knew made her heart race. “It’s been torture, watching you all week. Wanting nothing but to have my hands on you. Inside you. _Evelyn_.” He crooked his fingers inside her and she bucked forward, moaning. “I think I could watch you read a book for hours.”

That one made her laugh, her chest filling with an impossible sweetness. She raised a hand to card her fingers in her hair, pulling his head back so she could see his face and kiss him properly. But instead of seeing Jansen’s face, she saw—

Cullen’s.

She woke up in her tent with a gasp, drenched in a cold sweat, her body shaking with a strange mix of heart-wrenching dread and overwhelming arousal. Her first thought was: _Thank the Maker I have my own tent._

Her second was: _Andraste forgive me_ , had as she slipped a hand between her legs, hoping to resolve the unbelievable ache that was lodged at the bottom of her stomach. It didn’t take long. All she had to do was apply her fingers and think of Cullen’s voice, low and gentle, in her ear; Cullen’s lips against her neck; and Cullen’s strong, steady fingers between her legs and she was arching in her bedroll, teeth gritted as she muffled a cry.

For a minute she lay there, still trembling, the aftershocks of her orgasm fizzling in her blood. When her heart started to slow, though, the ramifications of her dream hit her like a kick to the stomach and she curled into a ball. At first she just _shook_ , but it wasn’t long until she started to cry, great heaving sobs that rolled through her like waves.

Maker, _why_? She was just beginning to feel like she could maybe, _maybe_ be the Inquisitor long enough to (probably) die some noble death killing Corypheus, and now this. It was a stupid, useless complication. One more tangle in the snarled weave of her life. Cullen wasn’t someone she could avoid until this—infatuation, or whatever it was, faded. He was one of her advisors; he commanded the Inquisition’s troops. The moment she returned to Skyhold, she would be trapped in meetings with him for hours. That day and the day after, until she left again.

Hot on the heels of self-pity came shame, and Evelyn felt her face burn as she buried her face in her hands. Cullen was _finally_ starting to trust her, to see her as something other than a shell-shocked Circle mage. And this was how she repaid that trust. By fantasizing about him. In a tent. In the Maker-cursed Emerald Graves.

It was too much. Exhaustion, sudden and abrupt, swamped her and she went limp under her covers. She closed her eyes.

Tomorrow. She would deal with it all tomorrow.

* * *

It was the fourth day following the Inquisitor’s departure for the Emerald Graves. Cullen was in the middle of reading a report from Scout Harding, who wanted to know whether he could spare some soldiers for a geological survey. When he nearly wrote in reply a simple _Not really, Lace_ , he knew he needed to set his work aside for the night.

Putting the request back in its stack, Cullen stood and stretched, feeling all the aches that came from a long day spent in one chair or another. At least Barris was going to spar with him tomorrow. He needed the outlet. He’d felt unaccountably restless since the Inquisitor had left Skyhold, and paperwork wasn’t helping.

Cullen looked up at his loft, but from the pounding at the back of his head he knew that sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. If sleep and work were both out, that left him with limited options.

_Herald’s Rest._

The idea popped into his head so suddenly that he started. The tavern? He’d been once or twice and left swiftly enough, feeling like the presence of the Commander put a dampener on the lively atmosphere. But the more he considered it, the more appealing a drink or two sounded. And he didn’t relish the thought of prowling through Skyhold’s wine cellars this late.

Decided, he shrugged off his pauldrons, keeping only his lighter set of armor on in hopes that it would make him less conspicuous. He looked once at the paperwork on his desk as he stood in the doorway, but shook his head. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Time for a drink.

Herald’s Rest was lively but not busy, which suited Cullen’s needs. He was headed for the bar when he saw something in the corner of his eye that gave him pause: the spirit, Cole, talking to the Iron Bull. As soon as Cullen saw him, though, Cole vanished. A chill traveled up Cullen’s spine; he would never get used to that.

Bull must have noticed him looking their direction, because he bellowed out a greeting. “Commander! Making an appearance, eh? Grab a drink with us!”

Cullen froze, his eyes drifting longingly to Cabot’s empty bar. When he’d decided on Herald’s Rest, he’d contemplated a night of alcohol and silent reflection. But he liked the Iron Bull well enough—more since he’d become Tal-Vashoth—and it would be rude to decline. And he could always drink alone later.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Cullen headed towards Bull’s table. There were a handful of his Chargers there, cards spilled between them. Not Wicked Grace, but Diamondback. He pulled up a seat across from Bull, who looked pleased to see him.

“Diamondback?” Cullen asked, tilting his head at the cards as he tugged off his gloves.

Bull grinned. “Yep! You should join us. We’re just about done with this round. Dalish is about one card away from trouncing us.”

“ _Chief_ ,” Krem protested, even as an elf—Dalish, Cullen presumed—glowered at him. “You promised. None of that Ben-Hassrath crap.” Turning to Cullen, Krem added, “He’s impossible to play with, like this.”

Cullen felt suddenly wrong-footed, like he’d been told about a joke he wasn’t supposed to hear. “Er,” he said, then cleared his throat as he felt his cheeks heat. “That is, that’s kind of you. But I’m terrible at cards.” Which was true.

Bull waved the excuse away. “We’re not playing for money. Just drinks! Everyone except the winner has to drink at the end of a round.” Cullen opened his mouth to protest, still unsure what, exactly, he was going to say, when Bull kept going. “And your drinks are on me, Commander. You’ve had a rough week of it.” The man was already raising a hand, making some signal to Cabot.

_Well_ , Cullen thought. _I guess this is happening. Best make the best of it._ He only had to play one round, after all. Then he could escape to his loft and stare at the ceiling until dawn, like he usually did.

Cullen held up a hand, acquiescing. “All right. You win. Deal me in next round.” As he spoke, Cabot appeared and placed a large tankard of…something in front of him. Cullen took a whiff and frowned. It wasn’t anything he recognized.

“Great timing, Cabot,” Bull said. Rounding on Cullen, he pushed the tankard even closer towards him. “Here, take a swig while they’re finishing. I fold,” he added, tossing his cards into the middle of the table.

The elf beside Dalish sighed. “I fold az well. Zis iz pointless.” A dwarf pitched his cards in after that, followed by a reluctant Krem. Grinning, Dalish raised her cards and said, “Drink!”

“Or that,” Bull said easily, raising his own tankard.

Reminding himself that he _had_ wanted a drink, Cullen lifted his own tankard in a toast of sorts before taking a swig.

Only years of experience with Kirkwall’s worst moonshine stopped him from spitting it out. Even still, his eyes watered as it burned all the way down his throat, turning the contents of his stomach into something approximating lava. “Maferath’s balls,” he coughed, thumping his chest. “What _is_ that?”

“Maraas-lok! Good stuff. It’ll put some chest on your chest.”

Still feeling the burn in his throat, Cullen scowled. “I think my chest has enough chest, thank you.”

“Aww, c’mon. It grows on you. I promise. Deal him in, Dalish.”

Unsurprisingly, Cullen did not win the next round of Diamondback. Or the round after that. Or the round after _that_ , which meant he drank more than he’d intended when he left his tower. Things were feeling very comfortably warm when he folded in the last round and took the customary drink after knocking cups with Krem, who gave him a slap on the back.

Chairs moved after that, somehow, and then Bull was sitting on his left. When Cullen frowned and glanced to his right, he saw that Krem had pulled his chair closer to the two elves and the dwarf and was laughing about something with them.

“You were a good sport, Commander. Thanks for playing with us.”

Cullen snorted. “When it comes to cards, a good sport’s about all I’m capable of being. But it was my pleasure. It isn’t often I get a night off,” he admitted. As he did, he realized that that was, in fact, what this was. It was a rather nice realization.

“I bet. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me asking. But is everything okay with you?”

Cullen felt a moment’s panic. _Does he know about the lyrium?_ The man was former Ben-Hassrath.

When Bull saw his face, he shook his head, his massive horns swinging around as he did. “Not the lyrium. I mean other stuff. You seemed kind of worried when you walked in.”

In his current state, Cullen’s only reaction to the Iron Bull’s casual dismissal of his lyrium withdrawal was an eloquent, “What?”

“Well, it’s not often you come in here. And, you know.” Bull gestured at him, which Cullen assumed was supposed to convey something Ben-Hassrath-y about his behavior. “Just wondered.”

Cullen’s brow was creased in a frown; he was still processing the fact that Bull knew about the lyrium. By the time he caught up, his first reaction was to answer honestly. “Maybe?”

The Iron Bull nodded. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. Commander of the Inquisition’s forces and all. Anything in particular?” Before Cullen could wrap his mind around an appropriate answer, though, Bull asked, “Have you heard from the Inquisitor?”

“What?” Cullen asked, bewildered by the change in tack. “Uh. No.” His frown deepened. “She usually writes by now,” he murmured.

“That’s got you worried, huh?”

“I—yes? Maybe. Yes.” Actually, definitely yes, now that he was actually thinking about it. He should get back to his tower. Maybe write a letter (or two?) to her.

His concern must have shown on his face, because the Iron Bull placed a hand on his shoulder, effectively pinning him in place. “Slow down, boss. Nothing you can do tonight. What’s got you anxious? Maybe she usually writes, but Red hasn’t heard anything concerning, has she?”

“Well…no.” Leliana would have told him if she had.

“So what’s got you worried?”

With the maraas-lok still warm in his veins, Cullen didn’t think; he just answered. “I don’t know. I worry about her. Things,” he corrected, even as he flushed. “Her…things.”

Bull raised his eyebrows. “Her things?”

Cullen’s cheeks felt like they were about to melt off his face. “Maybe just her,” he muttered. But that wasn’t strange, was it? She was the Inquisitor. Leliana and Josephine worried about her, too.

“She’s a capable woman, though.”

“Of course,” Cullen said, indignant.

“What’s the worry, then? Think about it. I’m going to hit the latrines.”

And the Iron Bull stood and left him there with his thoughts.

Cullen frowned into his empty tankard, thinking. Bull made excellent points. There was no real indication that anything was wrong. But it _felt_ wrong, sitting here at Skyhold and scribbling on paper while she was out risking her life, even though he knew it made sense. He knew his place wasn’t in the field with her. She’d gone on expeditions before, ones longer than this. So why was it bothering him this time? Why did he feel so restless, so unsettled? It wasn’t like he—

Oh, no.

Oh, _no_.

“Andraste’s arsehole,” Cullen muttered, dropping his forehead to the edge of his tankard.

“Figured it out, did you?” Bull said, sliding back into his seat. “Why don’t you say it out loud for the class.”

Cullen raised his head, scowling at the Iron Bull. “I can’t have a—a _crush_ on the Inquisitor.”

“A crush, huh? Sure. Okay. We can call it that, if you want. Why not?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “She’s _the Inquisitor_!” he hissed.

“So? She’s Evelyn, too,” Bull said, his voice eminently reasonable.

Cullen was beginning to suspect that of the two of them, he was the only one who was drunk.

“Well, _yes_. But she’s…my superior.” It was the first thing he landed on.

“Not really. You’re here advisor. It’s not like you’re a soldier who reports to her.”

Well, that was technically true. But still. “She’s a Circle mage. Or was. She probably hates templars. Ex-templars included.”

The Iron Bull made a thoughtful noise. “And she’s told you that?”

_No bad templars. Just people._ Cullen swallowed. “Not exactly,” he hedged.

Bull gave him a look, like he knew Cullen was lying. He stayed silent for a minute, studying him. “All right, Commander. We can leave it there. You’ve had a lot of truth for one night. Think I should take you to bed.”

“I can _walk_ ,” he snapped, because he could. He wasn’t _that_ drunk.

“Probably. But you’re kind of important to the operation. Don’t want you to fall off the battlements. Maraas-lok hits you hard.”

Cullen stood, already starting to protest, when the room sort of tilted around him. There was a pause, in which Bull gave him a significant look. “Fine,” he grumbled.


	6. Dream and Idea

There was no word  
For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky.  
All that existed was silence.  
Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,  
The first Word,  
And His Word became all that might be:  
Dream and idea, hope and fear,  
Endless possibilities.

_Canticle of Threnodies 5:1_

_Nothing’s changed_ , Evelyn reminded herself, heart hammering, as she approached Skyhold on horseback with Blackwall, Dorian, and Varric behind her. Because truthfully, nothing had, and if she just remembered that she could probably avoid losing whatever progress she’d made befriending Cullen.

It was a comforting fiction, one swiftly dispelled when he met her at the gates with Leliana and Josephine. As soon as she saw him, her gut clenched as warmth suffused her. Somehow, she’d forgotten how attractive the scar on his lip was. Or how shy his smile always seemed, like it was something that had slipped out, unintended. Maker, even the way he moved, with a casual intent that somehow managed to broadcast how dangerous he was without being threatening.

“It’s good to have you back, Inquisitor,” Cullen said.

There was a moment of silence that bordered on awkward, but then Evelyn remembered she was supposed to reply. She returned his smile, hoping he didn’t notice the faint blush she felt creeping up her cheeks. “It’s good to be back.”

Fortunately, Leliana took it from there. “It sounds like things went well with Fairbanks, but we should debrief you properly.”

“Of course. Let me change, and I’ll meet you in the war room.”

And from there, Evelyn slipped back into her old routine.

Mostly, anyway. There was a new edge to her conversations with Cullen, and she worried he felt it, too. Her efforts to quell her attraction to him were entirely unsuccessful. It was impossible to be around him without being acutely conscious of everything he did. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was embarrassed, or the way he would stop and close his eyes for a few seconds when the headaches were bad.

If he noticed it, though, he didn’t let it affect their growing friendship. He sought her out for a game of chess every few days, and she started lending him books on Knight-Enchanters when he asked about the discipline she’d chosen. Sometimes he joined her at breakfast, or she joined him. Bull began inviting him to join their weekly Diamondback game with the Chargers, and though Cullen had flushed and declined, he still sometimes stopped by to talk while they played.

It was good. In truth, it was what she’d hoped for. Somehow, it still felt like a crushing disappointment.

At least her duties as Inquisitor kept her busy. She was back at Skyhold for only a month before she left again, this time for the Exalted Plains. After three weeks of trying to manage an Orlesian civil war she returned, only to find an invitation to the Winter Palace waiting for her. Then, it was another month at Skyhold, this time preparing for the ball.

She still sparred, usually with Vivienne or her trainer, but most of her days were spent with Josephine memorizing things that felt trivial but which she knew were important: noble lineages and alliances, the order of soup spoons, Orlesian dance steps.

The dancing was the worst. After one particularly hideous lesson in which she managed to trip Josie twice, Evelyn lost her temper. “Why am _I_ the only one who has to learn this?” she demanded, trying to fix the ridiculous skirts that the ambassador insisted she wear for their lessons (just in case!). “Why not Blackwall, or Vivienne or Cole? Or you! Or Leliana? Or—or Cullen?”

She almost stumbled over his name, but if Josephine noticed she said nothing. Instead, she huffed, looking unusually flustered. Probably because she was still trying to fix her hair after the last fall. “Vivienne is an accomplished dancer. Blackwall has proven to me that he knows the steps. As do Leliana and I. I did not presume you chose to bring Cole because of his allure as a dance partner, but please, Inquisitor, correct me if I’m wrong!”

Obviously not. She was bringing Cole because of his ability to read people’s thoughts, which seemed like it would be a useful skill given the nature of the Game. “Well—what about Cullen?” she asked, and then immediately regretted it as she flushed.

With an annoyed huff, Josephine flicked the last strand of hair out of her face. “ _Cullen_ is completely hopeless, and Leliana and I agreed that rather than have him panic and—I am being quite literal, Inquisitor, I assure you—step on some important toes, it would be better to have him abstain entirely. Unfortunately for us both, that is not an option for you.” She held out her hand. “Now, _if you please_ , let’s try this again.”

And so it went. By the time they left for the Winter Palace, Evelyn was a remarkably competent dancer, given her humble beginnings. Josephine still insisted she practice every night, the two of them dancing by the light of campfires, turning up dust with their boots as they moved through the steps and their companions watched in amusement.

With Josephine’s lessons under her belt, Evelyn was more or less equipped to deal with the Game and its nuances. She was less prepared for the sheer splendor of Halamshiral, the beauty and grace that it evoked, even with all its sinister undertones. When they learned that Duchess Florianne was the traitor, half of her thought: _Of course it’s her_ , because this was Orlais, after all; and the other half thought: _Surely it can’t be_ , because Gaspard was her brother and Celene was her cousin.

After Celene reaffirmed her position as Empress, Josie found her in the crowd. Her normally-reserved ambassador was glowing and breathless. “What a triumph! Oh, Evelyn, they will be talking about this in Orlais for _ages_. Everyone is dying to speak with you.”

Somehow, Josephine got her to agree to three hours of mingling. Evelyn soldiered through half of it before she excused herself, ostensibly in search of a drink. In reality, she wanted to see how Blackwall and Cole were faring. (She wasn’t worried about Vivienne.)

Cole, she knew, was by the stairs. As she walked to him, she passed Cullen and his flock of admirers. A smile twitched at the corner of her lip as she saw him, clearly flustered, put some distance between himself and a noblewoman. He was remarkably endearing when flustered, and it was somewhat comforting to know she wasn’t the only one who found him attractive.

As she climbed the stairs, she scanned the crowd for Blackwall. Finding him engaged in a conversation with a trio of dwarves, she relaxed slightly. Just Cole, then.

He was where she’d expected, overlooking the crowd. Evelyn paused before approaching him, sparing a fond smile for the boy he appeared to be, eagerly observing his first ball. “Cole,” she said, and he turned to her. “Any observations?”

The spirit paused, tilting his head as if considering. “The faces talk even when they aren’t moving. Silk on satin on skin, always wanting, chaste but chased. Too many. They have faces inside their faces, lying with a layer that tells the truth. I don’t know how to help them.”

Well, that was somewhat disappointing, but not entirely surprising. She knew bringing Cole was a gamble. Solas had said as much, when she’d asked for his opinion. _“He is a spirit of compassion, which I am told is in short supply in the Orlesian courts. He may be exceedingly useful, or he may be able to tell you nothing about the players in the Game.”_

In any event, Cole appeared genuinely distressed and Evelyn felt a stab of guilt. _Maybe I should have left him at Skyhold_ , she thought. Too late now, though. She managed to keep a smile on her face as she said, “Try not to worry about that, Cole. We’ll be leaving soon.”

As she turned to go back down the stairs and into the crowd, Cole spoke again. “Cullen is afraid,” he said, and Evelyn’s heart stopped. “They’re hunting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.”

“What?” she asked, her voice faltering. “Cole, what do you mean?”

But the spirit was gone, only empty air in the place where he’d stood.

Evelyn replayed the scene downstairs. The way Cullen had jerked back. The deliberate distance he’d put between himself and the noblewoman. The way her hands had lingered in the air near him. _Cullen is afraid._

Something crumpled inside her chest, even as something else unfolded. Evelyn ignored the latter and focused on the former, taking the stairs as quickly as was decent. When she craned her neck, she saw he was still where she’d left him: cornered by two women and a man, rigid and uncomfortable.

She had the presence of mind to think, _Josephine is going to kill me_ , followed by a realization: _I don’t care._

“Commander Cullen!” she exclaimed, doing her best to wear the voice and persona that Josephine had helped craft for her.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, his voice tight. His eyes never left the Orlesians around him. “Is something amiss?”

“No, nothing amiss,” she assured him quickly. Maker, the last thing she wanted was to make him think there was some impending crisis. “But I do need to borrow you for some Inquisition business, if I may.”

When the words sunk in, he looked like a drowning man thrown a rope. “Oh, yes. Apologies. It’s been a lovely night,” he told the nobles around him. He didn’t sound particularly sincere, but she grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the crowd before they could react.

Within seconds Evelyn realized that she was dangerously close to _holding his hand_ and let go with a jerk. Cullen didn’t seem to take offense, though, and kept pace with her as they cut through the crowd. “Maker,” he murmured. “That was terrible. Thank you.” She could feel the frown in his words as he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere away from all these people,” she said, distracted. The gardens at the back were overflowing, she knew, but they could probably get some space in the gardens at the front of the Winter Palace, away from the masses. The guards at the door let them pass with a nod, and as they walked out, she was relieved to find that her guess was correct: there were a few partygoers scattered around, but most of them were on their way out. The few who looked to be staying seemed, like them, to be seeking some air and uninclined to converge on them.

Once they were outside she slowed, Cullen doing the same beside her. He exhaled, one long breath that he might have been holding since the evening began. “Thank you, again.” He paused, then asked, “That was for my benefit, right?”

“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t think to do it sooner.” Evelyn did her best not to look at him as she spoke, afraid that if she did she would see something else, instead. The thing blooming inside her.

They stood in companionable silence for a minute, until Cullen gave a rueful sigh. “Josephine is going to kill me.”

“Fuck Josephine,” she muttered, and then winced. _Shit. That was rude. I didn’t mean it. I—_

But to her surprise, Cullen laughed. It sounded genuine, almost incredulous, and without thinking she looked at him, smiling. In the moonlight, in his uniform, he was almost unbearably handsome. It didn’t matter. He could’ve been wearing a burlap sack. His eyes met hers and Evelyn felt the terrible, fragile knowledge she’d been avoiding all evening unspool inside her, followed by a stab of sorrow so acute it left her breathless.

She was in love with him.


	7. Hope and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Cullen has a brief flashback to his time at the DAO Circle, Kinloch, where he was tortured by the desire demons. I'd consider it dub-con as opposed to non-con. It's quick and PG/PG-13, but I wanted to note it. I've updated the tags accordingly. Thanks for reading!

Dream and idea, hope and fear,  
Endless possibilities.  
And from it made his firstborn.  
And he said to them:  
"In My image I forge you,  
To you I give dominion  
Over all that exists.  
By your will  
May all things be done."

_Canticle of Threnodies 5:1_

The morning after his “night off” with the Iron Bull, Cullen awoke with a wretched hangover. For a few blessed minutes, he struggled to remember what had happened the previous night. And then he did, and he buried his face in his pillow and groaned.

_Maybe it was just that maraas-lok_ , he thought. _I can’t have feelings for Evelyn. Trevelyan. The Inquisitor, dammit._

It took him almost an hour, between the lyrium withdrawal and the slow, dull pounding of the hangover to make it out of his bed and into his clothes. From there he shuffled down to Herald’s Rest, where Bull was holding court as usual, cheerful and chipper.

He met Cullen’s glower with a smile. “How you feeling, chief?”

“How do you think?” he grumbled.

Bull laughed. “Not great, I’d imagine.” The Qunari paused, giving Cullen a considering look. “You can’t hold it _all_ in, Commander. Gotta let some things out.” He shrugged. “Maybe last night was one of those things.”

Cullen clenched his jaw, feeling his cheeks warm. “It was _not_.” Because, simply, it couldn’t be. He _could not_ have a crush on the Inquisitor. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about our conversation.”

“Who would I tell, eh? Your business is your business. Just think about it.”

Cullen didn’t dignify that with a reply.

For the next few weeks, he did a relatively impressive (in his mind, anyway) job of convincing himself that he wasn’t infatuated with the Inquisitor. He was lonely, and in a weak moment he’d imagined feelings that weren’t there. That was all. If he worried about her, well—he _was_ the Commander of the Inquisition. Shouldn’t he worry about the Inquisitor?

It all worked well enough until Evelyn returned from the Emerald Graves, coated in a thin layer of dust from the road, her cheeks flushed from the ride, a thin trail of sweat snaking down her temple, and his heart stumbled in his chest. Then she smiled at him, tentative and warm, and he knew it was hopeless.

And thus began a painful few months.

He didn’t want to end their burgeoning friendship. It would complicate their roles as advisor and Inquisitor, he reasoned, and would be pointlessly cruel. Evelyn seemed to enjoy what they were building, and this was his problem—not hers. _It doesn’t have to affect our friendship_ , he told himself.

That was easier said than done, of course. When she was in Skyhold he was with her constantly, discussing briefings and reports, and each time his thoughts seemed to veer in completely inappropriate directions despite his best efforts. Like how soft her skin would feel beneath his fingers. What her hair smelled like. Whether her mouth would taste like those ginger candies she liked to eat. How other parts of her would taste.

(On one particularly torturous occasion, he was going up to her room to deliver a report when he passed Cassandra. “She just got out of the bath,” the Seeker said as she walked past him. “I wouldn’t go in unless you want to see her naked.” He managed to wait until Cassandra was out of hearing range before he hissed a quiet, “ _Maker_ ,” and stalked back to his tower.)

And then, because the Maker apparently enjoyed his suffering, they received an invitation to Halamshiral.

“I am absolutely _not_ going to dance,” he told Josephine after Evelyn left the war room.

“Yes,” Josephine agreed. “That is probably for the best.”

…which was easier than he thought it would be. He had some cause to regret his resistance, though, when he saw Evelyn practicing with Josephine on the road to the Winter Palace, effortlessly guiding the ambassador through the steps. It was the first time he could remember wishing, even faintly, that he could dance.

That was really the only remotely pleasant part of the trip, at least until Evelyn rescued him from a flock of Orlesian nobles and pulled him out to the gardens at the front of the palace.

“Fuck Josephine.”

It surprised a genuine laugh out of him, the first in days. He turned to look at her, and almost immediately regretted it. She was no longer wearing her Inquisition formal attire (“Too many bloodstains,” Josephine had said when he asked, which was _not_ comforting), but a dress that their ambassador had evidently brought as a back-up. It was similar to the gowns the Orlesian nobles wore, but done in a dramatic red, the same color as their uniforms.

Unfortunately for Cullen, the neckline also matched the Orlesian gowns, plunging low enough to show him more of the Inquisitor’s cleavage than he’d honestly ever expected to see outside his own, pathetic fantasies. _Maker’s breath,_ he thought with a blush, _it barely covers her nipples._ And…now he was thinking about the Inquisitor’s nipples. More specifically, how they might feel beneath his tongue.

Realizing that he was staring, Cullen jerked his eyes up to her face just as Evelyn turned to him, their eyes meeting. For a second, Cullen thought he saw—something, but when he blinked, Evelyn just looked sad. Melancholy, even.

_Of course_ , he thought. _This evening can’t have been pleasant for her, either._

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice soft.

Before Evelyn could answer, Cullen heard a voice to his right say, “You found him!”

Cullen reached for a sword that wasn’t there, jumping as he turned to see Cole, who was possibly his least favorite member of the Inquisition. Somehow, Cullen managed to bite down a strangled shout at the last moment; beside him, he felt Evelyn suck in a breath. “ _Some warning?_ ” he hissed.

Cole ignored him, looking straight at Evelyn instead. “He’s glad you found him. He likes it better out here. It’s quieter, with you.” Before either of them could react to that, the spirit turned to Cullen and added, “You were right to be afraid. I don’t like their masks.”

And then Cole vanished as promptly as he’d arrived, leaving the two of them alone again.

_Yes_ , Cullen thought, gritting his teeth. _Definitely my least favorite member of the Inquisition._

“He means well,” Evelyn said. An apology.

“I suppose Cole told you I was…uncomfortable?” He refused to use the word “afraid,” which was only mostly accurate.

“Maybe,” she allowed after a pause.

_Maferath’s balls._ “Well, that’s mortifying,” Cullen muttered.

“I’m glad he told me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known.”

Which was some small comfort. At least he hadn’t _looked_ visibly terrified. Looking at her again, at last, he saw a pensive crease in her forehead, some undefined tension in her shoulders. Cullen rested his hands on the balustrade, gripping the wood as he looked out over the gardens. He knew what he should say. It was just harder than he’d expected to let her go.

“In any event, while I appreciate you pulling me away from those vultures, I’m sure you have business back inside.” He added, wryly, “I should be able to manage out here, at least until the end of the evening.”

Evelyn didn’t respond right away. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it, raising a hand to rest her fingers on her lips, thoughtful, and Cullen resisted the incredibly inappropriate urge to kiss her. _Let her go_ , he reminded himself.

He was about to excuse himself, wondering if she wanted some time alone before retreating indoors, when she shrugged and said, “I’d rather be out here with you.”

Cullen knew he should insist that she go, or at least make another attempt. He was her advisor, after all, and the Inquisition would be best served if she went back inside and padded a few egos while her victory was fresh in their minds. But when she said _I’d rather be out here with you_ , he knew he wasn’t going to.

“Take a walk with me,” he said, before he could think better of it.

“What?” she asked, startled.

He raised a hand, rubbing the back of his neck as he fumbled for words. “It’s…a nice night,” he said. Which was only slightly better than his alternative answer to her question, which went something along the lines of: _I’m in love with you and have been for months, maybe since we fled Haven. All I want is to carry some of your burden. If you’ll let me, that’s more than enough._

She didn’t question his inane response, at least. Instead she smiled, looking shyly pleased. “All right.”

Close but not touching, the two of them walked down the stairs and into the gardens, Cullen leading. Flowering vines climbed up trellises, while shrubs dotted with blooms cascaded over raised planters. The air was fragrant with scents that might have been overwhelming during the day. In the cool night air, though, the medley was actually pleasant. It was, actually, a very nice night.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing, Cullen took a seat on one of the stone benches at the back of the garden, away from the few guests who lingered outside the palace gates. Evelyn sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something light and floral that suited her. He kept his eyes carefully forward, trained on the planter a few feet in front of them.

He knew what he wanted to tell her, but wasn’t sure if he should. In the end, he told her anyway.

“You know I was stationed at Kinloch. That I was the only templar left when the Hero of Ferelden arrived. They killed the others, but they didn’t just kill them. I don’t know if Uldred was an abomination yet, or if he simply wanted to see us suffer, but he tortured them before he killed them. He had a few desire demons. They took turns with us.”

His hands were on the edge of the bench, a white-knuckled grip. _You can’t stop here_ , he thought. _Go on. Keep going. You only have to say this once._

“There was a woman at the Circle. A mage. I’m certain she didn’t even know who I was, but she was confident. Intelligent. Kind. I was…” he trailed off, giving an embarrassed cough. _You only have to say it once_ , he reminded himself. He sighed, and pushed forward.

“I was _infatuated_ with her. The demon took her form and did its best to—well, to tempt me. I don’t know how long it had me, but it felt like years. Each time it got harder to remember who I was and that none of it was _real_.”

_Hands on him._ Her _hands, delicate and careful, curling around his neck, his waist, running down his thighs and then between them as she palmed him, her breath in his ear. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I’ll take you somewhere no one can find us. Greagoir doesn’t need to know. No one does. Just let me have you, Cullen.”_

There was a reason he didn’t like to talk about it. Even saying this much brought it back, vivid as ever, the familiar bile already rising at the back of his throat. Swallowing, he said, “I was almost gone when the Hero arrived and killed the demons. I was crazed, out of my mind. I kept feeling like she was still there, following me around the Circle. Closing in. I felt like—well, like _prey_ , I suppose. That’s what tonight felt like.” Their pointed questions, the way they leaned into his space and lowered their voices to suggestive octaves, and worst—the bold few that reached out and _touched_ him, like he was some stallion at auction.

 “Cullen, I—” she started and stopped, like she was searching for words.

_Understandable_ , he thought. _I said too much. I should’ve kept it simpler. Just said it reminded me of the Circle, that’s all. Not this, this insane confession—_

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.

Evelyn slipped into silence. He heard the edge of her nails scrape against the stone bench, like she was digging them into the rock. He desperately wanted to look at her, but he didn’t dare.

Finally, just as he was about to say something to fill the silence, Evelyn said, “There was a desire demon at my Harrowing. I know it’s not the same. Not even close, really. But I know how unpleasant they are. And I’m sorry.”

_Oh_. He’d never really expected anyone to understand, let alone a mage. He knew, of course, that they underwent Harrowings—he’d participated in several himself as a templar—but it had never occurred to him that mages were some of the few who might understand what it was like to face down a demon and walk away.

“What did it show you?” he asked, and then winced. It was a rude question, too personal. Just because he’d offered didn’t mean she had to reciprocate. Before he could retract it, though, she answered.

“My Harrowing was a month or two after Helion was made Tranquil. It was what you’d expect. He came to tell me they’d found a cure for Tranquility and the First Enchanter was reinstating him.” She sighed, the edge of a bitter laugh on the end of it. “I think it made it easier, in some ways. I knew what to expect. But even knowing what it was, I almost said yes. Foolish.”

“But you didn’t,” he pointed out, his voice soft.

“No. I didn’t.” Evelyn hesitated, and then said, “We should go back inside. I’m sure Josephine is looking for us.”

Her smile was kind, but Cullen’s heart still sank as he said, “Of course.”


	8. A Night Without Moon or Stars (Interlude)

Darkness fell upon the Lonely One,  
A night without moon or stars,  
As the legion followed, like bloodhounds,  
The trail of the rebels.

_Canticle of Shartan 9:9, Dissonant Verse_

Leliana watched from the balcony as the Inquisitor led Cullen outside to the front garden. Tread soft, she moved to the window to watch as the two passed through the doors. The Inquisitor dropped her Commander’s hand as they did, but stayed close.

They weren’t touching, but they didn’t need to touch. Leliana had been a bard once, after all, and she could read nearly as much in a sigh, a slouch, a shift as in a kiss. The distance between them suggested some kind of apprehension, but likely not, she thought, a concern that others might think them a couple. Evelyn had led him outside by his hand. If that was her concern, she wouldn’t have touched him.

_No_ , Leliana thought. _It is doubt that concerns her. Doubt of his affection. Possibly, a doubt of her own._ Cullen seemed to start forward and then pull back, equally unsure. Despite the distance between them, though, it was clear in the way they moved what was building between them. They orbited one another, tracking each other’s movements in a dozen subtle ways. It was possible that they themselves weren’t aware of what they were doing. But Leliana saw it all.

Josephine came up behind her, looking out the window. “Oh,” she said, and a smile twitched at the corner of Leliana’s lips. She might not be a bard, but Josie was just as observant in her own way. “Is this…” her friend trailed off and then sighed, clearly reluctant to say what had to be said. “Is this something we need to do something about?”

Leliana crossed her arms over her chest, watching as Cullen and Evelyn walked down the steps, going farther into the gardens. It wouldn’t be easy to dislodge them at this stage ( _And how did it get to this stage, without my noticing?_ she wondered), but it wasn’t impossible. Find a reason for Evelyn to be absent long enough, and the attraction might even fade on its own. For a second, Leliana considered it. But she could almost hear Justinia by her side, speaking words she often had: _Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should._

“No,” Leliana said at last. “It is difficult enough for them. Let them find what happiness they can.” _Love is the Maker’s greatest gift, after all._

“Oh, good,” Josie said, breathing a relieved sigh. Leliana smiled. Though Josie could be ruthless when needed, it was nothing her friend enjoyed doing. “And if it does get out, it will not be so bad. It would raise morale, maybe earn us some attention. It is a romantic idea: the Inquisitor and her Commander! She could have chosen someone much more difficult than Cullen. She could have chosen the Iron Bull! That would have posed a challenge, to say the least.”

Leliana surprised them both by laughing, and soon Josie followed with a small chuckle. “Well,” the spymaster said, “I suppose we should go back downstairs and try to buy them some time.”

“Yes,” Josie agreed. “That would be a kindness.”


	9. As the Moth Sees Light and Goes Towards Flame

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light.  
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,  
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

_Canticle of Transfigurations 10:1_

When Cullen told her the truth, her stomach turned. For a moment, Evelyn thought she might be sick. _No bad Templars. No bad mages. Just people_ , she told herself, forcing herself to breathe. Cullen needed her to listen. To hear. Not for her to collapse into a void of self-pity.

She knew, then, that she would never have him. Not like she wanted. That in all likelihood, she should probably just do her best not to touch him at all.

Her first inclination was to avoid him altogether when they left Halamshiral, but it didn’t take long for her to realize what kind of impression that would give: that she was appalled by his confession and wanted nothing to do with him. So she tried to act as if nothing had changed, bringing her horse alongside his to talk as they made their way back to Skyhold, inviting him to her nightly game of Wicked Grace with Blackwall and Leliana. Cullen always demurred, but sometimes he would watch. In each instance, she did her best to keep space between them at all times.

She wouldn’t touch him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t _look_.

That was what Evelyn told herself, when she began taking afternoon tea with Vivienne on her balcony. It was around that time that Cullen usually sparred with the soldiers, often stripping his shirt after a few rounds. She wasn’t the only woman in Skyhold to watch, either; it was quite the spectacle. If having an audience upset Cullen, she reasoned, he could easily stop. Surely it wasn’t so bad if she watched, too.

As enjoyable as it was to watch sweat drip down his back while his muscles flexed, though, that was only part of the appeal for her. The ring was one of the few places where Cullen let himself go entirely, laughing and boasting with the soldiers, utterly relaxed and carefree. _I must be a masochist_ , she thought, watching as he stepped back and motioned for his partner to come at him. It bordered on torturous to see him at ease in a way she knew, now, that he would never be around her.

It didn’t help that she kept _dreaming_ about him. The kind of dreams which left her feeling deeply ashamed when she woke to find herself twisted in her sweaty sheets, an insistent throb between her thighs.

Down in the ring, Cullen knocked his partner to the ground. He walked over to the man and bent over him, likely to ensure he wasn’t hurt. Something about the movement or his posture reminded Evelyn viscerally, painfully, of her dream the night before:  herself on her stomach, Cullen pinning her to the bed with one hand while he used the other to steady her hip, whispering endearments in her ear even as he ruthlessly fucked her into the mattress.

“…and then I rode the griffon into the Frostbacks, naked,” Vivienne said.

“What?” Evelyn started, tearing her gaze away from the ring to Vivienne. The mage was giving her a pointed look. “I’m sorry, Vivienne,” she said, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “That was rude.”

“I don’t suppose I can blame you, can I? He _is_ quite a sight. I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that you can do better, my dear,” Vivienne said, but before Evelyn could be insulted on Cullen’s behalf, she added, “but it’s clear where your heart lies. I understand. Bastien was not the only man with an interest in me that evening. But he _was_ the only one who intrigued me.”

Evelyn fumbled for the right words, but every excuse that came to mind sounded as good as an admission. So instead, she looked down at her tea and muttered, “Is it that obvious?”

“Only if you’re looking,” Vivienne assured her, which wasn’t entirely comforting. She was the Inquisitor, which meant that surely at least some people _would_ be looking. “Why haven’t you told the Commander how you feel?”

She looked up at Vivienne, and something in the mage’s expression told her that whatever she said in this space would stay between the two of them. So she told as much of the truth as she could without betraying Cullen’s confidence.

“He was at Kinloch and Kirkwall. He’s seen the worst of what mages can do. I doubt he would have any interest in a mage.”

Vivienne nodded, sympathetic. “It’s an understandable concern. Both of those Circles were subjected to the worst excesses of blood magic.”

“I know,” Evelyn murmured. And she did. Only too well.

“ _But_ ,” Vivienne continued, “people are remarkably resilient. Commander Cullen now counts mages—you included, I would add—among his friends. He might surprise you.”

Knowing more than Vivienne did, Evelyn knew how impossible that was. But to placate her friend, she nodded and took a sip of tea.

* * *

Something changed between them after Halamshiral, and Cullen couldn’t say that it was for the better.

Certainly, Evelyn was just as friendly. She treated him just as she had before his confession, which was a relief. But even as he felt their friendship steady and strengthen, the distance between them seemed to grow. He couldn’t find a reason for it, which was frustrating—which, coupled with worsening lyrium withdrawals, made him restless and short with the men and women under his command, which was unacceptable. He took to sparring in the afternoons as a way of working off the edge, and it seemed to help.

He was sparring when he received a message to meet the others in the war room. Grimacing, he wiped the sweat drenching his face off on his tunic. There was no time for a bath. He was just going to have to go in smelling like dirt and sweat and grime, which wasn’t generally how he liked to smell around Evelyn. But some things couldn’t be helped.

Most of the meeting didn’t require his presence. _I definitely could have taken a bath_ , he thought sourly as Josephine and Leliana debated the best way to respond to a number of offers the Inquisition had received following their visit to the Winter Palace. Evelyn looked almost as bored as he did, the few times he dared to glance at her.

Eventually they got through it, though it took them long enough. Josephine consulted her list and announced, “We only have one item left on our agenda. Inquisitor, you said there was something you wanted to raise regarding Cole?”

For one brief minute, Cullen allowed himself to hope that she was finally removing him from the Inquisition. But he wasn’t so lucky.

“He discussed a templar and a mage he knew at the Circle where he entered our world. The mage was a man named Rhys. The Templar was a woman named Evangeline. From what I can tell, they were his friends. It seems like things were left unfinished between them. It’s not urgent, but I thought we could try and find them. It might give Cole some comfort. And even if it doesn’t, they could be assets to the Inquisition.” She paused, then added, “I’m not sure it matters, but I got the impression that this Rhys and Evangeline were involved romantically.”

_Inappropriate_ , Cullen thought, and he must have sighed or made some other noise of disapproval. Usually he was better at holding those in, but he’d been battling a particularly fierce headache for most of the day and his nightmares last night had been worse than usual.

“Something bothering you, Commander?” Leliana asked.

“No. I mean, yes. It’s just—a mage and a templar. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Beside him, Evelyn stilled. Leliana and Josephine looked at each other, than deliberately focused on their papers. _What did I say?_ Cullen wondered, bewildered. It might not have been the most…tactful statement he’d made in the war room, but it didn’t seem to merit the awkward silence that blanketed the room.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “How are we going to find them?”

The meeting plowed on after that, but it all seemed stilted. When it ended, Evelyn left quickly, Josephine following almost immediately. Leliana gave him a look that might or might not be intended to carry some extra significance, and then left through a different door. With a sigh, Cullen headed back to his tower alone.

He was walking through the courtyard when he felt the air shift beside him. This time, all he did was flinch. An improvement, at least. “Don’t you have better things to do?” he muttered.

“No,” Cole said.

_Andraste preserve me_ , Cullen thought.

“I don’t think she can help. She’s dead.”

Cullen sighed, beginning to climb the stairs. “What is it, Cole?”

“She wonders, What would he think of me, if he knew? Secret nights, guarded days. Willing, wanting, waiting. His armor, cold like the fire that burned the Maker’s bride. Cold like the fire surrounding the sword. Her fingers trace it before she removes it. She liked him better without it; he was softer, then.”

As the spirit spoke, Cullen slowed to listen. Once he realized what Cole was trying to tell him, he swore a vehement, “ _Maker’s breath_ ,” and closed his eyes.

He wouldn’t claim to be the Inquisition’s most intelligent member, but he wasn’t oblivious. His comment at the meeting had clearly bothered Evelyn, and he hadn’t been able to figure out _why_. But if she’d been…involved with a templar at her Circle, that would explain it. Amply.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m an idiot.”

“She doesn’t think so,” Cole said, helpfully.

Opening his eyes, Cullen scowled at the spirit. His heart wasn’t in it, though. In this instance, Cole had proved useful. _Not that it helps_ , he thought bitterly. How could he apologize to Evelyn, when doing so would force him to admit that Cole had told him something she clearly wasn’t comfortable sharing with him? _Sorry to bother you, Inquisitor. I realized my comments at our meeting today may have come across as insensitive, given your former relationship with a templar at your Circle. Cole told me; I hope you don’t mind. Please accept my sincerest apology._

When Cullen thought about what _exactly_ he’d said in the room, his spirits grew even fouler. All he’d said was that it shouldn’t have happened. He hadn’t clarified that it was the _templar_ who shouldn’t have allowed it to happen, regardless of how the mage felt about it.

A templar’s duty to protect the mages under his or her care was a sacred trust, and as far as Cullen was a concerned, seducing a charge was a gross violation of the same. There was a reason he’d never once considered acting on his ill-advised feelings at Kinloch. His convictions had only grown stronger in Kirkwall. After Meredith was killed, he’d been forced to confront the ugly truth of the abuses that templars had heaped upon the mages in their care.

_What a mess I’ve made of things_ , he thought, rubbing his forehead.  Surely there was some way to fix it. Something he could say without betraying that he knew. But before he could even begin to contemplate what that might be, one of his lieutenants approached him bearing a stack of papers. “New requisition orders, ser. They’re wanting your signature.”

Cullen rubbed his forehead. Later. He would think about it later. “Right. Let’s head to my office.”

Somehow, he slogged through the rest of the day. When he finally retired to his loft, he devoted some time to thinking of a way to apologize to Evelyn without actually revealing that Cole had told him something he was fairly certain she wouldn’t have wanted him to learn.

Finally, sometime just before dawn, he settled on something he thought would work. He would simply approach her and say, _I wanted to apologize for what I said in the war room yesterday. I should have clarified that my frustration was with the templar for betraying the trust of one of her charges. I know sometimes mages and templars become involved, in Circles. If you had any friends who were in such relationships, I can understand how what I said might have seemed offensive. Please believe that I don’t think the blame lies with the mage, in any case._

He recognized that it wasn’t likely to come out so clean in the moment, but at least he had some idea of what he’d need to say. With that settled, Cullen was able to catch a few hours of sleep. When he woke in the late morning, having overslept—and _Maferath’s balls_ , why did no one think to wake him?—it was to find that Evelyn had left an hour earlier, headed for Crestwood with Cassandra, Vivienne, and Sera to meet Hawke’s Warden ally.


End file.
